


when you wake me up

by youwerefantasticrose



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 07:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10212359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youwerefantasticrose/pseuds/youwerefantasticrose
Summary: Cassian has a hard enough time hiding his feelings for Jyn on missions. Having to share a bed makes it that much more difficult.Jyn/Cassian. Post movie, everyone lives AU. Title from Ed Sheeran's "Wake Me Up."





	

There’s one bed.

They’re on some desert planet he’d rather forget the name of, an information-gathering mission, but their contact has delayed for another day. Normally they’d take that as a warning, a possible trap, but this is important intel, and they’ve been ordered to stay. Which they would have anyway, but it’s nice to follow the rules for once. K2 stays with the ship, able to blend in if he’s found by stormtroopers, but Jyn and Cassian have to find somewhere to hide out.

They’ve managed to find a room for the night with a “friend” of Cassian’s. (That’s how he refers to him anyway – Jyn’s raised eyebrow tells him she can hear the quotation marks in his voice. She knows better than to ask.) The house (if you could call it that) is tiny, dirt floors and one small grimy window. It’s one room, but under the chair in the corner, there’s a small trapdoor that leads to a hidden basement. Perfect to hide booze, which is clearly his friend’s main use for it, but it also has a small bed and a lamp. Good enough for Rebels needing a place to camp out for the night.

Except for the whole one bed thing.

They both stand there for a moment after they climb down. Cassian heads down first, offering her a hand down off the ladder, and he’s still focused on the warmth of her hand and the pressure of it in his when his eyes fall on the bed.

Jyn doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she’s just not thinking about the implications. Implications he’s trying to keep from thinking about, and failing, his face warming.

She heads to the bed and sits on the edge, taking her shoes off. “It’s late,” she says. “We should get some rest while we can.”

He nods, looking at the floor, the wall, the shelves of bottles, anywhere but her eyes.

“I’ll take the floor,” he manages.

It’s quiet for a long moment, and he finally forces his gaze up. She’s giving him that look, the “stop being so stupid” one that he’s gotten used to seeing from her. She jerks her head toward the bed. “It’s fine. There’s plenty of room.”

He swallows hard, and then nods, knowing there’s no point in arguing with her (though that usually doesn’t stop him from trying). He tells himself he’s giving in because he really is tired, having only slept maybe four hours in as many days, and the floor looks grimy and hard. That’s the only reason.

He sits down on the other side of the bed, facing away from her, and unties his boots, slipping them off, then takes off his overshirt, leaving on the tank underneath. He hears her get up, switching the lamp off, and then in the dark, he feels her sit back down.

It’s pitch black and completely silent (they are underground, after all). After a moment, he feels her lay down, the thin mattress creaking, and she exhales softly. He lays down too, eyes open, unseeing in the dark. The bed’s not large, but big enough to fit them both comfortably, next to each other without touching.

But he can feel her, right there, so close. He can feel the heat from her skin, or at least he imagines he can. 

For a long time, it’s been like this, at least for him. Unspoken, but something’s there, as much as he tries to fight it. They can read each other, thoughts shared through eye contact, raised eyebrows, a lift of a shoulder. It drives Bodhi crazy, their shorthand. But it works – they make a good team, and the Rebellion takes notice. It’s mission after mission, the two of them, sometimes with Bodhi flying, K2 always along for the ride. Each time they’ve scraped by, usually by the skin of their teeth, being in tune with each other often being what saves them.

The only thing she can’t read from him are his feelings for her. He’s not sure how she misses it, the way his eyes linger on her, flicking away too slowly when she turns, his hand going to the small of her back as they walk side by side, millimeters away before he pulls back. Either she’s oblivious or willfully ignoring it, sparing his feelings or just avoiding the subject altogether.

Sometimes, fleetingly, he thinks it’s not just him. On Scarif, there was a moment. They were ready to die, almost did, and they chose to end things together, in each other’s arms. But life went on. And she never said anything, so neither did he.

There’ve been other moments, small ones. Waking up from a nightmare on the ship to her next to him, holding his hand in comfort. Undercover missions where they hid in alleys, pressed together against walls, breaths hitching from running (or from their proximity, in his case). Saving each other’s lives time and time again. But it doesn’t go beyond that. They don’t talk about it.

He thinks all this now, laying next to her, flat on his back. His eyes have adjusted a little to the darkness, and he chances a look over at her. Her breathing has slowed, and she’s curled up, her back to him. He’s overtaken suddenly by the urge to hold her, turn over and put his arms around her, to fall asleep wrapped around her. For a second he can’t breathe imagining it. But then he pictures her waking up, jumping up, pulling away from him. Losing all they’ve built, their bond, her trust. He can’t risk it. He’ll take what he can get, these pieces of her, her rare smiles at him, her hand on his arm, yanking him out of the way of blaster fire, the three, four times he’s made her chuckle. He’ll take it, and it’s more than enough, more than he ever even really hoped for.

He closes his eyes, trying to make himself fall asleep, and she shifts. She rolls over to face him, sighing softly, her eyes closed. He doesn’t move. She’s close now, very close, her face soft in sleep, and he can’t stop staring at her, the wisps of hair falling on her cheeks, her eyelashes, her mouth slightly open, so close he can feel her breath on his cheek. He’s wide awake.

***

By morning, he’s had maybe fifteen minutes of rest. Jyn is a hard sleeper, shifting occasionally but never waking throughout the night, while Cassian, hyper-aware of her and her every move, stayed awake. He can see some light through the cracks of the trapdoor, and he looks at her in the glow. She’s moved onto her stomach, her face pointed towards him, her arms bent on each side. As he looks, she shifts again, turning onto her side, facing him, sliding closer to him. He freezes, but she keeps moving, slowly, until her head rests on his arm, barely touching it, but then leaning into it. She sighs quietly, and he knows he should wake her, that they need to get going, but he waits, closing his eyes again and burning this moment into his memory. Another piece of her to keep close.

***

“Cassian.”

He opens his eyes, jerking his head a little when he realizes he’d fallen asleep. He turns to her, still laying there, not leaning on him anymore, but still close.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” She sits up, blinking heavily. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes,” he lies, and she gets up.

“We should get going.”

And they do, dressing quickly and heading to meet their contact. It’s supposed to be any easy meet. No one knowing they’re coming, no real risk. If they have good luck.  
Which they don’t.

There are stormtroopers waiting, but there always are, and they always fight their way out, making it out with a few scrapes and bruises when they’re on top of their game.

Which he isn’t.

***

Cassian wakes up and the first thing he notices is pain.

His arm is on fire, and he groans, his eyes squeezed shut, his fists clenching.

“Shhh,” he hears Jyn say.

His eyes jerk open and he sits up, panicking. “Jyn! What happened? Are you alright?” 

They’re back in the hidden room, in the small bed, and Jyn’s sitting next to him. He searches her face, looking for any kind of damage. She has a bruise blooming on her cheek, but she looks otherwise unscathed.

“I’m fine,” she says, sounding a little exasperated. “You’re the one who got shot.”

“I…Shot?” He looks down at his arm, the space between his shoulder and his elbow wrapped in bandages. He vaguely remembers the ambush, being surrounded, knocking one man out, and then turning, not fast enough, and the burn of the blaster fire. Then it’s all black. “I guess that explains why my arm hurts like hell.” He looks up at her with a smirk, but her face is stone, and he can feel the smile slide off his face. “What happened?”

“You tell me,” she says, and yes, she’s angry. Maybe angrier than he’s ever seen her. “We were ambushed, and we were fighting, and I don’t know what your problem was, but you were slow and got yourself shot. I fought them off and dragged you back here. You want to tell me what the hell’s the matter with you? You were practically sleepwalking out there.”

He lets her yell until she’s done, breathing hard and staring at him with blazing eyes.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“You didn’t…” She stops, huffing a breath out in anger. “You could have died, Cassian.” She pauses, looking away from him. “For a moment, I thought you had.”

He’s quiet, looking at her. There’s still a trace of defiant anger on her face, pointedly looking at the wall, but he can see beneath it, the fear there.

“Jyn.”

She still won’t look at him. He shifts, sitting up, grunting a little at the pain, and her eyes flit to him and then back at the wall.

“Jyn.” He reaches out, taking her hand. For a moment, she’s still, and he almost chokes on his own breath, knowing he’s crossed the line, but then she grips back, her fingers squeezing his gently. “I’m sorry. I’m alright.”

She finally looks at him, and her face is still hard, but it’s different. Her eyes are shining, and she’s staring at him like he stares at her when she’s not looking, and he can’t breathe again. Her hand is still in his, and maybe it’s the wound, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe it’s her eyes, but he pulls her down to him and puts his lips on hers.

She doesn’t really respond, just stays still, and for a second he wishes the blaster had finished him off. She pulls back, her eyes meeting his, and before he can even begin to decipher the look in them, she’s grabbing his shoulders and dragging him back toward her. Their lips crash together, and this time she’s in charge, her mouth warm and firm against his. Her hands move to his face, his hair, and he’s on fire again, and he’s consumed by it. She shifts, pressing up against him, her hair tickling his face as her mouth opens to his. He lifts his hands, one going to her hair, the other stroking her back, ignoring the throb in his arm, and for a fleeting moment he thinks _Maybe I should get shot more often_.

Then she climbs on top of him, her hands gripping his arms as she settles down, and he gasps, wincing as she puts pressure on his wound.

She pulls back, still on top of him, breathing hard and looking at his bandaged arm, eyes worried. He huffs a laugh, and her gaze moves to his face, and then she smiles, wide and joyful, and he memorizes every detail, her hands on his shoulders, the twinge of his arm, her weight on his lap, and her smile, brighter than stardust. She climbs off him gently, moving next to him, and takes his uninjured arm, putting it around herself and leaning into him.

“Go to sleep,” she says after a moment.

“Right now?” he says incredulously.

“Yes.” She takes his chin in her hand and turns his face toward her, kissing him once, twice, gently, lingering right in front of his mouth. “Don’t want you to get shot again.”


End file.
